


to me, you are perfect

by scribblscrabbl



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas fic, F/M, Feels, Love Actually AU, M/M, holiday fic, idek, lots of feels, shameless fluff, with some west wing on the side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the holidays really mean, in the end,—even if a person’s too inarticulate, too ill-tempered, too lonely to say it out loud—is love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to me, you are perfect

**Author's Note:**

> I was jonesing for an Avengers holiday fic and this was the result. Shameless Love Actually references ahead. You've been warned. Happy (belated) holidays!

Ask _what do the holidays mean to you?_ and everyone will answer it a little differently. Family reunions, family avoidance, miracles, consumerism, pandemonium, peace on Earth, gold earrings, Lego sets. But there will be a common thread, some word, a smile, to suggest that what the holidays really mean, in the end,—even if a person’s too inarticulate, too ill-tempered, too lonely to say it out loud—is love.

*

“I’m gonna surprise Pepper with a trip to Tahiti, what do you think? Swedish massages, aromatherapy, drinks with little umbrellas, jet skiing with a hot Tahitian instructor, all the stuff women like.”

“I think she’d suspect you were trying to ship her and her holiday cheer off to a remote island in the Pacific. The tinsel is getting out of hand, I admit, but the even-Tony-Stark-has-a-heart-on-Christmas speech? Gets better every year.”

They’re walking through a holiday market on F, bustling with the lunch crowd and the underemployed. Tony turns away from a particularly eye-catching hair ornament to throw Bruce an injured look.

“I’ll have you know my intentions are made of gold.”

“The road to hell is paved with gold intentions, my friend.”

“I think you mean—” Tony starts then stops. “Do you hear that?”

“If you’re referring to the voices in your head, then no.”

Tony bats a hand in Bruce’s direction. “Shh, listen.” 

Strains of a Christmas song float over from a few stalls down and he hums a few bars. _The_ Christmas song, first recorded in 1944 by Nat King Cole and covered by the likes of Frank Sinatra and Judy Garland. A classic if there ever was one. Even Tony, who’s never bought into the whole chestnut roasting, reindeer flying, yuletide shtick, can’t deny its genius. 

He makes them backtrack to 10th and, there, at the corner of the intersection is what he’s looking for, at once fitting and wholly unexpected.

_And so I’m offering this simple phrase to kids from one to ninety-two. Although it’s been said many times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you._

The guy’s in a flight jacket that’s seen better days and faded jeans, fingers slow and easy against his guitar, crooning with the kind of soul that can’t be taught. Tony knows because he’s tried. 

“I know that look.”

“What look?” 

“Let’s take a moment to remember the last guy you pulled off a street corner.”

“We had artistic differences.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “He swiped a two-thousand dollar Strat and Phil had to tackle him to the ground.”

Tony pointedly ignores him and approaches Soulful, dropping a twenty into the guitar case. There’s a few dollar bills, some loose change, and a gum wrapper.

“You’re wasting your talent on this crowd.”

The guy’s taller up close, straight nose, generous mouth, hair combed like he’s a poster boy for the 1940s—swing, black and white pictures, Bogart and Bacall. 

“Don’t have much of either I’m afraid.” He looks at Tony with eyes that would make a girl weak in the knees. Luckily, Tony’s not a girl. “But thanks, I guess.”

“Modesty. Huh. You’re almost too good to be true.”

“Excuse me?” He’s confused and a little flustered, disarmingly boyish all of a sudden, and it’s an image Tony wouldn’t mind tucking away. Who said lacking a brain-to-mouth filter didn’t have its benefits.

“When you’re done entertaining these plebs, think about giving me a call.” Tony wedges a business card between his guitar strings before walking off with Bruce in tow. 

“He seems a little old-fashioned for your tastes.” Bruce is looking at him askance.

“I’m an equal opportunity employer.”

“Uh-huh.” Bruce leaves it at that, hands in his pockets, smile a little too shrewd for anyone’s good. 

Tony would do what he does best and argue his case if he weren’t so busy trying to shake off those eyes.

*

“Clint, stop by my office a minute.”

Loki digs two fingertips into his left temple and feels the intermittent throb of a migraine. The Waterford clock on his desk shows a quarter past seven. Sunrise isn’t for another ten minutes or so but dawn is already scattered over the windowsill, turning the dark of his office into a kinder, gentler gray. 

On any other day he’d be looking out the window, content to watch the city reawaken over a mug of dark roast. Today he’s moody and tired, sick of the squabbling, the deadlocks, and the general incompetence that’s plagued the better part of his first term. He stares at the final draft of the Langley-Wilkes legislation, hailed as a bipartisan effort and part of a broader show of good faith. As if they weren’t reaching across the aisle with one hand and pushing each other under the bus with the other.

“Senator. How are you this fine morning.”

“Keep your voice down, it’s seven in the morning.” Loki gestures vaguely and Clint takes a seat, smoothing his trousers and tugging on his suit jacket before leaning back.

“Are you hungover?” 

“Do you want to be fired two weeks before Christmas?” They both know it’s an empty threat but Loki enjoys saying it now and again.

“Campbell’s gonna offer the amendment.”

“He knows we won’t get the votes if he does.”

“He’s gonna offer the amendment.”

Loki narrows his eyes. “He backed the bill a week ago.”

“He’s been known to flip flop.”

“Not on trade.”

“You need to talk to him. He’ll listen to you.”

Loki rubs at his temple. He usually steers clear of nostalgia but something about the conversation dredges up memories. They were fresh-faced, bright-eyed, and thick as thieves at Harvard, empowered with the kind of ambition that didn’t compromise their principles. On their worst days, hunched over First Amendment theory at two in the morning, they reminded each other that they were working towards something bigger, something transformative. They no longer talk about those days, or the men they used to be.

“I’ll set up a meeting. You, on the other hand, need to ask Natasha Romanoff to the Christmas party.” 

The transition is so flawless Clint sits there uncomprehending.

“I’m sorry?” He finally croaks, then clears his throat. “I don’t follow.”

Loki reclines in his chair and studies his chief of staff for a moment. He’s rarely met a more fearless man than Clint Barton. In the six years they’ve known each other, he’s never once seen Clint’s composure rattled, by the press, by Congressmen, by matters of national security, or by women. This particular woman, however, is different story.

“You’ve known Natasha for, what, five years, give or take a few months?”

“Uh, yea, about.” Clint fidgets in his seat.

“And for how many of those five years have you been in love with her?” Loki smiles patiently.

Clint pales, then flushes, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Loki leans forward and clasps his hands. 

“There’s no denying it, my friend, everyone knows. Matt, John, Patricia, the aides, the interns, the guy at the hot dog cart down the street. So I say this, with the utmost respect for your manliness. Grow a pair and ask her out.”

“I—it’s not that simple.” 

“It’s Christmas. Pull her under some mistletoe and tell her how you feel. You owe it to yourself to do that much.” 

After Clint leaves and shuts the door behind him, Loki wonders if he should start following his own advice.

*

“Steve, try leaning in closer to the mic.”

“Uh, testing, testing.”

“Good, that’s good. I’m ready when you are.”

Bruce leans back in his chair and watches Steve tune his Martin. Everything about the guy looks vintage, and that includes his guitar. It’s a little worn around the edges, although not as much as its case, which looks banged up from every angle. There’s a noticeable scrape across the spruce top, right below the bridge.

“I still can’t believe he called you.”

Tony’s standing next to him, arms crossed over his chest, with his shades on, always the shades, and Bruce thinks he enjoys looking like he has something to hide.

“People are drawn to my positive energy and inner light.”

“Has Pepper been dragging you to yoga again?”

“Okay, I think I’m ready.” There’s a second of feedback and Steve winces. “Sorry.”

Tony leans over the console. “Just relax and breathe. Forget about the studio and the mic, it’s just you and your guitar, all right? Give me a little Christmas magic.” 

Steve nods and rests his palm against the strings for a moment before he starts. Bruce reaches out to tweak the preamp and EQs.

The sound that leaves Steve when he opens his mouth is something else. A cross between Bing Crosby and Michael Bublé, packaged with a sincerity that’s all Steve Rogers.

“He’s the real deal, isn’t he.”

Bruce turns to look at Tony when he only gets a hum of acknowledgement. Tony’s sunglasses are off his face, fingers tapping out a rhythm against his arm. He’s staring intently at Steve, eyebrows drawn slightly, like he’s stumbled across uncharted territory without a compass but he can see the whole of its magnificence stretched out before him and he can’t turn back now.

For Bruce the song stirs up all kinds of memories, mostly of his kids poking at the gifts under the tree, running in circles around him until he made a fire and hot cocoa with tiny marshmallows, getting stuck in the papier-mâché lobster heads he made for the school’s Nativity play. Now Betty takes them to her parents for the holidays and he gets them after if he’s lucky.

Neither of them moves or speaks again until the song’s over.

“How about one more before we take a break?”

Steve nods and shifts his guitar against his thighs. “Works for me.”

“So what did you tell him we’d be doing with this demo?”

Tony doesn’t take his eyes off Steve. “Run it by Mike. If I called the shots, I’d say we’d have an album release by March.”

“He said he wants to study law.”

“Can you picture him in a courtroom? He’s so nice he’d help the other guy win.” Tony shakes his head. “If we were all put on this Earth to make it a little better before we leave it, then he’s gonna do it through music.”

Bruce smiles. “Careful, I might start thinking Tony Stark has a heart after all.”

*

“Thor, it’s good to see you. How’s life been treating you?”

Clint reaches over to shake Thor’s hand before resuming his morning ritual. Black coffee in his Senate mug, a glazed donut, and the Post, hot off the press, none of that digital subscription bullshit.

“About twenty points better than it’s been treating you, give or take ten.” Thor cracks a smile. “The bump we got after Commerce revised the growth numbers gave us a warm glow for about two and a half minutes.”

“I’d say it can only get better from here but Congress is still in session for five more days, so I won’t push my luck. Donut?”

“Nah, need to watch my figure during the holidays.”

Clint bites into his. “I’m sorry, there are days when you _don’t_ look like you just stepped out of GQ? Why you settled for an unglamorous life in politics I’ll never know.”

“What’s more glamorous than falling asleep at your desk and having to hide in your office wearing nothing but boxers while your assistant dry cleans your suit for an 8am meeting because you spilled day-old coffee on it when you woke up?”

“Come to think of it, absolutely nothing.” They both grin and Clint’s reminded of why, of all the White House staff, he likes Thor best.

“Thor, would you please tell my chief of staff that it’s in his best interest, whether he admits it or not, to escort a certain lovely attorney to the Congressional Christmas party?”

Loki walks over with a sly smile and pours two mugs of coffee, handing one to Thor.

“Clint—”

“Okay, okay, you’ve driven the point home,” he interrupts, voice raised enough that Patricia looks up with a slight frown of disapproval. “Shouldn’t we be discussing matters of national importance.”

“I think the nation would agree with me.”

Thor chokes a little on his coffee.

“Senator,” he clears his throat, “the President’s gonna revisit guns in January.”

“Background checks?”

“And assault weapons.”

“He won’t gain any ground.” 

“It’s his second term. He’s prepared to go down fighting. He wants to know he has your support.”

“That’s not why you came by.”

Thor smiles and sets down his mug, looking worn down, but not beaten. Clint leans against his desk and studies the two men, cutting imposing figures in their impeccably tailored suits. He’s been in the company of some powerful people but he’s found that few command the attention of a room quite like these two.

“I need you to talk to Prescott, Lawrence, and Tate.”

“You mean the President needs me to.”

“Does it matter?”

Loki stares at Thor, unblinking for a moment, before giving an inch. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Clint knows better than to get in the middle of it even though he’s itching to state the obvious. In any other year it’d be a long shot with those three. In a reelection year, Loki would be wasting his breath. But Thor’s asking and Loki can rarely bring himself to say no. It’s not a personal favor; it’s just personal. Clint’s only caught glimpses of the history between them, but he imagines that they remind each other, just by standing side-by-side, of the kind of legacy they want to leave behind.

*

“Oh, hey, Bruce. Is Tony in?”

Steve lingers at the doorway with his hands stuck in the pockets of his jacket, surveying the holiday decorations that seem to have multiplied since he was last here. Bruce swivels in his seat at the keyboard set up in the corner of the studio.

“Steve, hey, come on in. Tony stepped out to make a call.”

“He said the demo’s ready?” He plucks an errant piece of tinsel off his shoulder as he takes a seat on the couch. “I didn’t expect to hear from him so soon.” 

Bruce smiles and scratches out a few more chords into his notebook.

“Tony usually makes a point of doing the exact opposite of what people expect from him.” He puts down his pen and rubs the back of his neck. “He also has no concept of time. He just plugs away at something until he’s satisfied or fed up, and then he moves onto the next thing. He likes to think he operates on a different plane than the rest of us.”

Steve laughs. He finds it hard to imagine how they make their partnership work but he figures it must take something special. He wants to ask Bruce what it’s like, being around Tony day in and day out, if all that frenetic energy doesn’t drive him at least a little bit crazy. 

Instead, he nods at the keyboard. “You play?”

“Just a hobby.” Bruce runs a finger along the keys. “Taught my kids when they were little, and then they grew up. Funny how that happens.” 

“What are their names?”

“Samuel and Elizabeth. But only when they’re in trouble.”

He goes quiet and Steve can tell there’s a story, something about how life never goes the way a person wants it to, no matter how much he wants it.

“You have pictures?”

Bruce looks at him a second before pulling his wallet out. Steve thinks they both have his smile, the wide, genuine kind that wins people over with no effort at all.

“I bring them by the studio sometimes. Tony likes to play uncle and let them get away with things I don’t.”

“Tony’s good with kids?” Steve imagines it’s another one of those unexpected things he does.

“Probably better than he is with adults. You see the world through a certain lens as a kid, and as you grow up you start to forget how that worked. Tony just hasn’t forgotten. That’s my theory anyway.”

Steve shakes his head and hands over Bruce’s wallet. “I can’t figure him out.”

“Trust me, it doesn’t get much easier.”

Steve figures it all comes down to whether or not he sticks around to find out how much. On his way over he thought about thanking them for going out on a limb for some guy on a street corner, and then walking away. It was never his dream; it was just easy for a while to pretend he had the start of something good, especially with the way Tony looked at him, like _this_ was how he should want to be remembered. 

“Any words of advice?”

Bruce smiles. “Don’t let him fool you. He struts around like he’s made of iron but, under the surface, he’s all flesh and bone.”

*

“Natasha, looking stunning as always. You put the rest of us to shame.”

Loki leans in and she offers her right cheek, then her left. 

“And you always know what to say to make a girl blush, Senator. You don’t look so bad yourself.” 

In fact, she’s never seen him look less than elegant, and that includes the days she catches him in an old t-shirt and sweats on his morning jog around the monuments. The black tux just lends him a certain charisma that imparts, in no uncertain terms, that he’s the kind of man to make history, for better or for worse.

“Ah, Clint, perfect timing. The two of you should catch up. I need to make my rounds.” He slips away stealthily but not before Nat sees the mischief written all over his face.

“Natasha.” Clint’s wearing a soft smile and satin lapels, and she can’t help reaching out to smooth down a few invisible creases. “You look—good.”

“So do you.” 

“How about a glass of champagne.” He swipes two off a passing waiter and finishes his in one go.

She sips hers slowly and studies him over the rim of the flute. He looks jittery, like there’s energy he’s been bottling up for days threatening to explode and take the entire room down with it. The last time she saw him like this was on election night over a year ago when every exit poll but one showed Loki winning by a landslide. 

“I hear your boss plans to back the NSA at tomorrow’s hearing.”

“Is that a question or a statement?” She smiles. She might not be a politician but she can play the game.

“You know only 17 percent of Americans think Congress provides adequate oversight and 14 percent think the collection of phone records helps the country’s interests?”

“I’m an attorney. I care about what’s legal, not what’s popular.”

“So you’re saying the NSA reading through conversations you’ve had with your mom and your boyfriend on the off chance that you’re plotting to overthrow the government is legal.”

She gets the sense that this conversation isn’t really about the NSA. They’ve been through this before, enough times that they know where they stand.

“First of all, I don’t have a boyfriend. Second, it’s almost Christmas and we’re both dressed up to have a good time, so how about you ask me to dance?”

Clint opens his mouth and for a second she thinks the night might turn out beautifully. Then his phone rings.

“Ah, _fuck_. Sorry, I have to take this, I’m—I’ll be right back.”

She lets out a long-suffering sigh for no one to hear and downs her champagne.

“Why the long face? Where’s Clint?” Loki appears, face expectant.

“Off being your chief-of-staff I guess.”

“You know, I can’t decide if I pay him too much or not enough.” He searches the room with a frown until something catches his attention.

When Nat turns to look, she sees Thor and his date—Jane, she remembers vaguely, an astrophysicist at NASA, brunette with a wide smile, a little plain for Thor but Nat keeps that to herself. They take their time crossing the East Room, greeting Congressmen and their wives, and Loki’s eyes follow them diligently.

It’s not the first time she’s seen him watch them, face inscrutable and jaw tight against some damning emotion. This time she gets an inkling.

“You’re in love with him. Aren’t you.”

She holds her breath and when he finally turns to her, she has the privilege of witnessing a vulnerability that nearly breaks her heart.

*

Thor must have seen the Christmas tree in the Blue Room at least a dozen times by now, but tonight’s the first opportunity he’s had to peer closely at the decorations, little glass ornaments and patriotic ribbons serving as the backdrop for stories of love and reunion.

“The First Lady’s really outdone herself this year.”

He turns and Loki’s standing there smiling, eyes reflecting the twinkling lights.

“The homecoming pictures are a nice touch. Makes you think about all the soldiers who won’t make it home for the holidays.”

“We’ll bring them home.”

“Not soon enough. People are sick of this war, Loki. Most of them think we’re losing.” They’ve never seen eye to eye on defense, but that doesn’t mean Thor’s given up on trying to sway him.

“I’m not saying ending it shouldn’t be a priority, but sometimes the burden falls on you to be the guy with the stick.”

“The two of you look way too serious to be enjoying the party.” Jane returns with Natasha by her side, cheeks flushed and radiant.

“He started it.” They point accusing fingers at each other. 

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “Oh, good. We have five-year-olds running the country.”

“Considering the current state of things, that might’ve worked out better for us,” Loki remarks dryly.

Thor grins then glances at his watch before slipping an arm around Jane’s waist, taking a moment to press his lips against the top of her head and inhale the sweet scent of her hair.

“I need to make a phone call for the President and then I’m done for the night, I promise.”

“You know, there are plenty of eligible men here just waiting to swoop in and charm a lovely lady like myself.” Jane smiles impishly.

“With more impressive resumés,” Loki adds.

“Now that hurts.” Thor throws him a wounded look before backing out of the room. “Ten minutes!”

He gets waylaid in the entrance hall by two Congressmen keen on congratulating him on the trade bill and wastes at least three of those ten minutes. When he finally gets to his office, Loki’s waiting for him, perched on the corner of his desk.

He frowns. “How did you do that?”

“I worked in the West Wing for three years. I know all its secrets.”

He leans against the doorframe and Loki watches him, face partially obscured by shadow, mouth curved with a little less guile than usual.

“I brought this,” Loki sets something down in the middle of his desk, “to commemorate your first White House Christmas.”

He walks over and picks it up, tracing its edges with his thumb. It’s a miniature replica of the National Christmas Tree that spans the length of his hand, complete with painted lights and a star on top. 

“I don’t know what to say.”

They settle into a comfortable silence and Thor remembers the days he ran Loki’s first campaign, getting into his face about putting convictions over politics and getting through about half the time. Loki’s ambitions had always been farther reaching than his. Even now, standing here, he feels a little thrown by his place and his power.

“I have to make that call.”

Loki stands. “No rest for the wicked.”

He starts walking to the door, then halts and turns.

“What I really came by to say is—” Something passes over his face then that Thor would mistake for fear if he didn’t know any better. ( _History immortalizes men, not cowards_ , Loki used to say with a smile when anyone warned him against having too much ambition.)

“It’s almost Christmas, and they say you’re supposed to tell the truth at Christmas, right?”

He’s nervous, though, definitely nervous, and Thor’s a little bewildered.

“What I really came by to say is—I’ve come to realize, however chaotic and dysfunctional and irrational the world is, life is, the one thing that’s never stopped making sense is this.” Loki sweeps a hand across the space between them, for a rare moment at a loss for words.

He steps forward until Thor can distinguish the green of his eyes from the dark of the room.

“We’ve never stopped making sense,” he tries to clarify, even though Thor already understands and finds he can barely breathe despite the cold. His office is always cold. 

“So what I really came by to say, without hope or agenda, is that—”

“Thor, your office must be a black hole because—oh, Loki.” 

Jane stands at the doorway, lips parted in surprise, silk shawl slipping from her bare shoulders. Loki retreats a little and when Thor looks at him again, he’s already a different man, eyes veiled and secrets well-guarded. 

Jane’s waiting, for a gesture, a word, and all Thor wants to do is take Loki by the shoulders and shake those secrets out of him. He knows what Loki was about to say, knows it with a conviction he didn’t think he had until it started burning a hole in his chest, but he wants to hear the words, out in the open where they can’t be mistaken for anything else.

Loki smiles artfully. “I guess your ten minutes are up.”

*

Bruce climbs the ladder and sets the star snugly on top of the tree, leaning back to admire his handiwork. His kids would probably point out that he’d strung the lights unevenly, leaving bare patches. Betty had always been better at that. He inhales the crisp sharp scent of pine and conjures an image of snow-laden branches and steepled roofs of pure white in an effort to defy the rain that’s been coming down all day.

He’s preparing to start a fire when the doorbell rings. When he answers it, a puffy shape with gangly limbs and a high-pitched squeal launches into his arms, knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Daddy!” He squeezes his eyes shut and clings onto his daughter for a moment before kneeling down to gather up both his children.

“Hello, Bruce.” Betty’s standing on his doorstep, hair shorter and face fuller, happier.

“You didn’t go to New York?” Outside, it smells more like winter than he expected.

She smiles, looking like the woman he fell in love with ten years ago. “I thought it could be your turn this year.”

*

“Go home, Tony. It’s Christmas Eve.” 

Natasha’s voice is full of authority and Tony responds by propping his feet up on the console and pouring himself another finger of whiskey. All the lights in the studio are off except for the ones Pepper strung up before she left for Tahiti, winking at him like they know something he doesn’t, the little devils.

“Why bother? I’ve got all the amenities right here. A comfortable seat and enough booze to fill me with a warm, Christmasy glow.”

“Well, you’re just a modern-day Scrooge, aren’t you.”

He opens his mouth to say he’s been called worse when someone buzzes the entrance.

“Hang on. Just got buzzed. Might be Santa Claus, although it’s a long shot.”

When he opens the door, it’s Steve.

“Definitely not Santa Claus.” 

It’s the same jacket, same eyes, and the world is spinning a little but he chalks that up to the liquor.

“What?” Steve looks confused. “Bruce said you might be here. Are you working on Christmas Eve?”

“ _Whoever that is, for the love of God, please get him—_ ” Tony ends the call.

“Who was that?” Steve looks even more confused.

“Nothing. No one. Is everything okay?”

“Yea. Yea, everything’s fine. I just—” Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Do you want to go get a drink? Somewhere? Unless you already have plans, you probably have plans, I figured I’d ask.”

He promptly shuts his mouth, lashes lowered, cheeks a little flushed, and Tony grips the door harder. His heart is racing in his chest, telling his feet to catch up. 

“Okay. Let’s go get a drink somewhere.”

*

Natasha drops her phone onto the coffee table after Tony hangs up on her and stares out the window, willing it to snow. She doesn’t remember much from her childhood but she remembers the snow, thick and pure, blanketing the city until nothing was left bare. 

She sits there, unmoving, bare feet tucked under the blanket, until the doorbell rings.

“Clint.” She opens the door wider. “What are you doing here?”

He’s wearing nothing but a sweater, hair a little unruly, chest heaving.

“Funny thing is, I left my apartment to pick up some Chinese, and then I started running, down 17th, past that dog park?”

“You _ran_ here from your apartment? Are you insane?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Clint laughs and steps closer, until she can smell the remnants of his cologne, warm and spicy and a little like Christmas. “So now that we’ve straightened that out, I can go ahead and do this.”

Then he leans in and kisses her, just like that. Like they haven’t been dancing around each other for the better part of five years. Like she could be the goddamn love of his life if she wants to be.

When he pulls away, she slides her palm against his cheek and his warmth. 

“Okay.”

*

Loki zips up his suitcase and checks his watch. He has a few minutes before his car arrives to pick him up for his flight and it hasn’t started snowing yet. He knocks back the last of his scotch. Luck is rarely on his side when it comes to holiday travel and he figures, with the way this year has gone, he’ll need a lot more liquor before he makes it home. 

The doorbell rings and he frowns, checking his watch again as he heads downstairs.

“Thor.” His hand tightens instinctively around the door.

“You haven’t left yet.” The relief is palpable and it chokes him a little.

“My driver will be here in a few minutes.”

Thor is silent for a moment, looking five years younger in a sweater and jeans, faded at the knees. Loki doesn’t remember the last time they saw each other out of their suits.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Jane in London?”

“She left this morning.” _I didn’t go with her_ hangs soundlessly between them.

“What does that mean?” He figures it’s already too late for self-preservation.

“It means I’m a sensible guy, and what makes absolute, perfect sense,” Thor steps across the threshold, hand resting on Loki’s to shut the door, “is this.”

**Author's Note:**

> Because it doesn't hurt to reiterate, everything here is 100% fiction. None of the characters are based on real people, although I do allude to real events. This is also in no way an accurate portrayal of how the US government operates.


End file.
